I was glad I had already emptied the brandy decanter so thoroughly, for I would have doubtless have poured myself a very large measure to aid my courage for my outing into that shrouded night. I was determined to find the priest, but I would be a liar if I said my heart did not tremble slightly as I stepped out into the cold.
The chimes of ten o’clock were ringing out as I stepped through the increasingly familiar streets of Bluegate Fields, my coat wrapped closely around me. I carefully selected an alleyway which sat between two of the dens I had seen the priest in during the past weeks, and I waited in the shadows, invisible in the darkness. My skin itched in the cold, and I knew the cause was the proximity of the opium. My willpower was strong, and I knew I would not give in to the cravings tonight, but I could no longer deny that my body had developed an over-fondness for the poppy.
It wasn’t an icy night, but the air was invasively chilly and as the hours ticked by, my feet became numb in my boots, and despite my hat, gloves, scarf and coat, I was frozen to the core. Standing there in the darkness I began to feel as if I had become truly invisible to the world beyond the small, forgotten doorway that hid me. Every now and then I would hear uneven footsteps and laughter as drunken men and women wandered back to whatever dreadful slum they called home, if only for that night, but not even those who passed directly before me turned their heads to glance my way.
Was this how it was for Jack and the Thames Killer? Did no one’s hair prickle at the back of the neck when they passed by the hiding places of those dangerous men? Did no one feel their murderous eyes upon them, evaluating their potential as a victim before making their decision whether to let them continue to breathe or not? So much for instinct, I thought as another pair of cheaply shod feet stumbled by, their owner mumbling incoherently to himself.
For the first time in my association with this vilest of London’s villages, I felt like hunter rather than prey. There was a power in being hidden, unseen. The streets once again fell into silence and I pressed myself against the rough wall and fought the chattering of my teeth, which I was sure must be loud enough to draw all manner of ruffians to where I stood. I might have had illusions of power from my place in the darkness, but illusion was all it was; I had no weapon – I was no Jack with a blade ready to tear apart some unfortunate woman; I was simply a tired, middle-aged, middleclass man whose curiosity had got the better of him, and who hoped that some answers would help him to sleep.
I sniffed and waited, unsure exactly how long I had been there, but not wanting to strike a match to check the time on my pocket-watch. Those who frequented the opium dens must already be in a stupor in their cots, or perhaps they preferred to use the busier roads to pass from one establishment to another. I doubted this would be the case for the priest, though: he might have a crippled arm, but he did not appear to me to be the kind of man to fear anyone – or anything – that might be lurking in an alley, most certainly not me. That had been quite clear the previous evening. I remembered how fast he had moved to lose me, and hoped I would not have to burst into a run tonight. It had been a long while since I had been forced to physically exert myself, and with the icy chill already gripping my limbs, I wasn’t entirely sure I was capable of walking, let alone running anywhere.
As it happened, I did not have to wait long to find out. I recognised his step before he passed by in front of me – there was a confidence in the fall of his feet lacking in those drunks and edgy villains who had thus far passed my way. My heart thumped so loudly in my chest that I was sure he would sense me here – that he would turn into the shadows and with a roar, drag me from my hiding place and throw me into the river, or maybe beat me unconscious in this God-forsaken place. Why I felt that so much violence could lurk inside a man of the cloth, I did not know, but somehow, over the weeks of my growing obsession with the priest, he had become something more than human, and the previous night’s strange encounter had solidified that fantasy in my overheated imagination.
But he did not turn. I saw his tall hat and long waxed coat for barely a moment as he strode by me. I held my breath and my muscles screamed silently as I cautiously pushed my body forward so I could peer out into the gloom. The priest was several feet ahead, but despite my terror that I would lose him once again, still I waited a few seconds longer before falling into step behind him. If I grew too close, he would sense me or hear me, I was sure of that, so I willed my shoes to be silent against the uneven cobbles and my breath came in shallow bursts, the steam disappearing into the heavier mist. Winter was not my favourite season; I found it heavy on the soul, but tonight I was glad of the smoky fog as I moved through it like a ghost, never losing sight of my target.
He stopped and went into one more den, a brief ten-minute visit, before re-emerging, head down, and continuing on his way. The dens must have been quiet tonight, and my guts twisted with longing as I passed a doorway I would normally be eager to step through. Tomorrow there could be opium, I promised myself, but for now, I needed my wits about me.
He walked through the streets, ducking through side-roads so narrow that two men could barely walk abreast, where the darkness was so complete that he all but disappeared ahead of me, leaving me solely dependent on my hearing. His footsteps were deadened taps cosseted by the lapping of water and creaking wood, and now I realised we were near the river, down by the wharves.
Finally he came to a halt outside a decrepit tenement building, which leaned uncomfortably against the one beside it as if needing the support to keep it standing. Catcalls and laughter came from somewhere above; disjointed, rough voices that could quickly turn from humour to aggression. I had heard voices like those before, edged with gin and sharp with hardship: people who turned on a coin from one mood to another.
The priest stepped through the doorway and before the door closed, sealing him off from view, I saw him begin climbing a narrow staircase. I had no fear that I would be locked out – the door was barely held on its hinges, and in buildings such as these, where individual rooms were rented by the night or the week, there was no call to secure the main entrance. This was a transient city in which we lived in. Only the hardy survived, and even then, they often wandered. Those who ended up in Bluegate Fields did not rent by the year – their lives could not be guaranteed that long.
I stared up at the building and hoped that the priest’s rooms were on this side of it. I could not have risked following him up the stairs – he would have spotted me straight away, and I did not want to bring a fight on myself in a place like that. After all, I wanted only to speak to the man; I was not accusing him of anything.
I scanned the windows, studying those in darkness until one, on the second floor, started to glow from lamps or candles lit within. I took a moment to lock its position in my head and then, with my heart somewhat in my mouth, I entered the building.
Although not warm, there was a humidity in the small hallway that could only come from too many bodies being crammed into one space for too long a time. The night breeze came in behind me, but it did nothing to dispel the lingering smell of stale sweat and smoke from poorly lit fires, the scents that were ingrained into the fibre of places like this. The staircase was narrow and the banister rickety, but I climbed steadily, keeping my head down, and the noises of the life around me filled the cold air. Babies cried and women soothed them as best they could, and I wondered how many families lived here, crammed into one or two rooms and praying that the next week they would have the money to pay those who preyed on them, anonymous landlords operating through lawyers who sat in much warmer, much larger houses counting their ill-gotten pennies.
I was glad that the priest was only on the second floor. As much as I pitied those who found themselves living in such dire premises, I was aware that I had plenty to fear from some of them. My poor disguise did little to hide my class, and my clothes, however dirty, were still of a finer quality than any here could ever expect to own. Terrible situations created terrible deeds: there would doubtless
be plenty in this building alone who would rob me and think no more of it ten seconds after it was done.
Thankfully, I reached the doorway unseen. I raised my hand hesitantly to knock on the scuffed wood, but before my glove had even made contact the door was pulled open and once again I found myself face to face with my mysterious stranger. His eyes were dark pits of glowing coal as he stared down at me.
‘For a moment, Dr Bond, I thought you might be going to the wrong rooms. That could be a dire mistake in Bluegate Fields.’
‘You knew I was following you?’
He shrugged before silently stepping aside to let me in. Suddenly, I felt a fool. I had been so confident, imagining myself the hunter in these mean streets, and all along my strings were being pulled like a puppet. I had done exactly as he had expected of me.
‘Most men are predictable,’ the priest said, as if in answer to my silent thought. He closed the door behind me and I looked around the small room. The bed in the corner had a meagre coating of blankets; there was one chair and a small table. Unlike the broken windows in the hallway, his were at least whole. A small fire burned in the grate, sending small spirals of smoke dancing in an eerie fog throughout the room.
‘Sit.’ He nodded towards the chair and sat on the edge of the bed. He kept his coat on, but the heavy crucifix shone in the light from both the fire and the candles he had lit before my arrival. I stared at it as he stared at me, until finally I took off my hat and placed it on the table. He looked at my head – or should I say, around my head – before snorting a little and looking away. What had he seen there, I wondered? What visions had his mind created for him? He had taken the drug, and far more than I had experimented with; I could see now that was why his eyes looked so dark – his pupils were hugely expanded.
‘You must tell me why you are so fascinated with the Thames Killer,’ I said. ‘If you know something, you must share it with the police. They are poorly resourced and—’
‘Must?’ he said, cutting me off. ‘You follow me here and then tell me what I must do?’ Again I heard the growl in his voice that made me think of Inspector Moore. They were both men cut from rougher cloth than I. ‘It is you who has the fascination, Doctor.’
He glowered at me and it was my turn to be silent for a while. Eventually I said, ‘You are right. Perhaps I do. Others, they find this Jack the Ripper to be the most terrifying murderer on London’s streets this year, but not I. And I do not understand that. I am a man of reason, of science, and yet … And yet, I am gripped by a fear that steals my sleep, and it is to do with this case, of that I am certain. If I could only find something – a clue, anything that might help the police to find him, then maybe my sleep and calm will return to me.’
Although I had had no intention of holding back from the priest, I surprised myself with my candid words. My honesty must have had some effect, because the aggression drained out of the priest. His shoulders slumped and he cradled his withered arm in his strong one. Did it cause him discomfort?
‘I can perhaps bring you something to help the pain if you—’
‘Your police cannot find this killer.’ He spat the words out. ‘You do not even understand what you are looking for.’ He looked at me. ‘And you should not want to, for there is no return from that path.’
‘What do you know?’ I leaned forward. ‘What is it you look for? Is it something in the visions?’
His leathered face cracked into a smile. ‘You sound like a madman. Are you a madman, Dr Bond?’
‘What do you look for?’ I repeated. ‘If you do not tell me, then I shall have no choice but to bring the police here to question you.’ I had not wanted to make threats, but I could think of no other way to compel him to speak.
‘You think I live here? You think I would allow you to follow me to my home?’
It was my turn to shrug. Perhaps these were not his rented rooms – and even if they were, he could vacate them quickly enough. ‘I would tell them about the opium dens – how you go there and study the dreamers—’
‘I study everyone,’ he cut in, ‘everywhere.’
‘That might be true, but you need the dens in order to be able to have the visions. If I were to have the police watch them, then they would find you and take you in.’
‘I fear I would not make a very good murderer with this.’ He raised his crippled arm.
‘But you might make a good accomplice. They’re tired and desperate and they will question you.’
We studied each other, and I sensed a shift in him as we played out our game of cat and mouse. Some of his disdain was gone – not all, but some.
‘I believe you are tired and desperate too,’ he said eventually, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
‘That I am, Father, that I am.’
‘Do not call me that.’
‘But you are a priest?’ I pointed at his collar. ‘Unless that is some form of disguise? I must confess, I do not recognise the order, but—’
‘You wouldn’t. I am a Jesuit priest from Rome, a small group, picked and trained from youth for our calling. There is nothing more for you to know than that.’
‘And your calling brings you here, to find the man who is killing these women?’
He turned his head and stared into the fire and I caught sight of a long, thick scar that ran down one side of his neck from behind his ear and disappeared under his dirty collar.
‘The Jack they seek – this rabid killer of women – he is nothing. He is simply an effect. What I seek – the thing I seek – brings mayhem and wickedness in its wake, spreading it like this choking fog across the city. It runs in the water of the river and it will destroy men’s souls.’ The brutality in his voice was gone; his words were soft, and the foreign lilt was like music.
‘You mean the man,’ I said. ‘Surely a monstrous man, but a man all the same. You think he hides in the opium dens?’
‘You know nothing,’ he repeated. His head turned towards me suddenly and his lips pulled back into a snarl. ‘You are blind.’ His good hand gestured wildly at my clothes. ‘You think you are clever; you think you know how to hide – this pathetic disguise? You are a fool. The creature I seek, the thing the people of the eastern lands call the Upir, it hides for years, decades even, sinking to the bottom of the river in the stagnant weeds until it is hungry once again. It is endless.’
My heart was racing and although the fire was small, I could feel it burning my face. This nonsense was not what I had been expecting.
‘I have tracked it across Europe,’ the priest continued. ‘I have barely rested. I have studied the damage it has left behind it, and now I am here, where it has chosen to stop, in the birth city of its host.’
‘Its host?’ My spirits were sinking. I had followed this man of the church in the hope that he would lead me to a madman – I had not expected him to be one. My expectations had been for nothing. Was he even a priest? Was this all part of some ridiculous delusion?
‘It is attached to a man, of course,’ he said.
‘Of course.’ I wondered if he could hear the weariness in my voice. I was in conversation with a lunatic. I itched to leave, and reached for my hat.
‘But it is not visible to the naked eye – not unless, not unless—’ He checked himself as his eyes met mine. ‘Not unless you have the gift of sight, and still you must use the opium to access the visions – or unless you are marked to die.’
‘Quite a creature,’ I said.
‘You see?’ He smiled. ‘And now you think I am mad, and that is as it should be. Get back to your cold, dead bodies, Doctor, and leave me to do what I have been trained to do.’
I got to my feet, happy to have been given an opportunity to excuse myself. ‘I am sorry to have disturbed your evening,’ I said, giving him a curt nod.
He didn’t get to his feet but tipped his head towards me, returning my gesture. His eyes still burned, and it disturbed me that he looked so sane. He had none of the tics and anxious movements one so often
saw in the mentally afflicted. I wondered what had brought him to this – the drug Chi-Chi gave him to smoke? I would not be going back to the dens tonight. I found I no longer had a taste for opium. It was as if he had tainted it with his mad thoughts. I wanted the comfort of my own house and the safety of that familiarity, even if it meant staring at the ceiling while sleep was elsewhere.
‘Dr Bond,’ he said, just as I had pulled the door open, my mind already on where I could go to find a hansom, unsure as I was of the area. I had followed the priest without paying very much attention, and all I knew was that I was somewhere undesirable, near the river. I was also debating whether I should tell Inspector Moore about this incident – but how would I ever explain my finding him? Perhaps this disappointing encounter was something best kept to myself.
‘Yes?’
‘It’ll be behind the man,’ he said, his voice once again level and soft. ‘Somewhere between him and his shadow – somewhere he can almost see, but not quite. And it will drive him mad. I guarantee you that.’
We stared at each other for a moment longer, and then I turned my back to him and left. There was nothing more I could say. I wished the brandy decanter at home was full. If ever there was a night I needed a drink, it was this foul one.
16
The Daily Telegraph –
Saturday, 10 November 1888
Another appalling murder was committed in the East-end yesterday morning. At a quarter to eleven, the body of a woman named Mary Jane Kelly was found dead in a room of the ground floor of 26 Dorset-street, the entrance to which is from Miller’s-court. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear, and the body had been mutilated in the most revolting manner, the nature of the injuries leading the police to believe that the perpetrator is the man who recently committed the crimes of a similar character in the same neighbourhood. A post-mortem has been made, but the official results are not stated. The hour at which the deed was done can only be conjectured, as the last evidence of the woman being alive was at one o’clock in the morning, when she was heard singing. There is absolutely no clue to the murderer.
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